


Fire to my Soul

by TemporalRanger (dorianpavus)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorianpavus/pseuds/TemporalRanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're not what they were, and it doesn't change a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire to my Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my Cas, [](http://aeon-entwined.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://aeon-entwined.livejournal.com/)**aeon_entwined** , for cheering me up. Not sure how that works, really. Also, the fact that I wrote this while watching Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers will never cease to amuse me.

It had started as rage and fire and _tomorrow, I die for you_. It started as denial and escape and the hard thud of bodies (human bodies, both of them, too human and so _different_.) into rough wooden walls. It started with teeth and growls, his hand tearing through the soft blue shirt and Cas' nails digging bloody crescents into his hip as he battered fury into lust against Dean's unmoving form.

It started with whiskey and sharp edged sarcasm until the taunts turned to bites and the drag of nails, the shove of hands and the ripping of clothing that's more about destruction than sex. It started with hard truths and old wounds ripped open, with Dean sealing his mouth over half-forgotten lips and swallowing down the harsh unspoken accusations, saying _I know_ but not _I'm sorry_.

It continues with blown-wide blue eyes glaring up at him and the hard, painfully familiar jut of sharp hipbones pressing him back against wood. It's his breath catching as his thumb reaches out, unintended, to run callous-rough along Cas' bottom lip. It's a sharp inhalation, the angry flash in blue eyes in response and _you don't get to do that_. His lips say _I know_ while his fingers tangle in too-limp hair and close around a too-thin waist.

It's _you're not allowed_ breathed against his lips and another _I know_ whispered back before he tips his head slightly to close the remaining distance. It's two pairs of lips parting against each other and stubble scratching at his jaw, the slow slide of tongues and the trading of whiskey-edged breaths.

It pauses with their hands gripping desperately at the fabric over each other's shoulders as they turn their heads, still pressed together, to stare at Castiel's hand spread over the matching mark, both tense and waiting for something that never comes.

It almost ends with bitter, broken laughter as Cas looks away, his fingers loosening their grasp on Dean's shirt, slipping off his shoulders as he turns, moving away, _leaving_. Dean's hands tighten over cloth covered shoulders, fingertips digging hard into skin to hold him there. It's _No._ falling hard from his lips and his hands sliding along Cas' arms to wrap around narrow wrists, drawing his hands back to Dean's shoulders, nails digging unvoiced opinions and questions into thin skin.

It's harsh breaths torn from their throats despite the way his chest is so tight he doesn't think he should be _able_ to breathe, waiting, clinging, until Cas' hand tightens over the mark in silent answer.

It resumes with the slow press of foreheads, the painful gentleness of featherlight caresses, the locked gazes and the silences broken only by hitches in their breath, the occassional sharp inhale and hissed exhale as fingers rediscover old sweet spots, known so well once that it's still half-instinct.

It's the slow removal of clothing, drawing away to pull rough cloth off before they press back together, warily, tentatively, leaning back in to each other, learning the differences, the new scars, the way both their ribs are more pronounced, the changes wrought by time and hardship and war.

It's Dean walking backward across the cabin, fingers of both hands tangling through the ex-angel's, tightening at the slight hitch in Cas' breath. It's Cas pressing him down onto the broken mattress, following him down in a too-practiced, too-easy movement, his mouth pressing kisses down Dean's chest like broken promises; saying _always_ and _good bye_ in the same action as blue eyes hold green with a hint of their old intensity flaring at the back.

It's the langurous roll of hips through jeans, patient and unhurried until they're both pressing into it and breathing in soft gasps before it's the clever tickle of fingers at his waist and the too-loud tearing of velcro as Cas works belt and thigh holster free at once. It's the slow rough drag of denim and cotton down over-sensitised skin, and blue eyes peering up at him, sinful, from between his thighs. Oddly elegant fingers close over the muscle, hitching Dean's legs up slightly before Cas' tongue slides out, hot and wet, circling unhurriedly, almost languidly, before pressing in.

It's Dean's fingers clenching in the woolen coverlet and Castiel's nails digging silent admonishment into his thighs when his head tips back, breaking their eye contact. It's the slow, deliberate press of tongue and the patient addition of fingers that only _graze_ and never _press_ until he's arching his back and whimpering against the bedspread, until his vision is nothing but an unfocused blur of blue, until there's nothing but whispers and pleas of _Cas_ on his lips and he's not even sure that's coming out right anymore.

There's the sound of fabric scraping over flesh but he's too busy moaning at the loss of fingers and tongue to really process it until there's the smooth slide of skin up his body and a forehead pressed against his own, a deep, sex-rough _Dean_ that shivers against his jaw and blue eyes so close he can see darker flecks in the thin ring of iris remaining. It's Cas staying still, searching, looking for something until Dean's eyes close briefly, hand reaching up to rest on his cheek, sliding back slowly into dark hair as he exhales slowly, breath sighing over Cas' lips.

It's the slow rock of hips; it's bodies pressing together and locked gazes too close for focus. It's shared breaths and mirrored moans and it's so painfully intimate that it tears them apart. It's the slowest of builds, the encroaching burn as spit wears thin until they're both raw and it's pain as much as pleasure, until Dean's begging against Cas' lips and he can't tell whether it's _stop_ or _keep going_. It's sad, weary blue eyes and sweat-soaked hair plastered against their foreheads until Cas' mouth seals over his, swallowing ragged breaths and moans as he reaches down to wrap too-clever, too-knowledgeable fingers around Dean. And then it's Dean's fingertips digging into the smooth, too-loose muscles of Cas' back before they tense and still, falling into a sweat-soaked tangle of too-tired limbs and exhausted pants, briefly peaceful.

But then it's Cas pulling out and moving away, not meeting his eyes, turning his back to sit on the edge of the bed, head bowed. It's Dean watching and _not_ running a hand down his back and his face blank as he says "It doesn't change anything, you know." matter-of-factly.

It's Cas giving him an unreadable look and a flat "I know, Dean." and Dean watching silent and expressionless as Cas collects his clothing and leaves.

It ends with distant gun fire too loud in his ears, with Cas' name on his lips and Sam's foot on his neck.

It always will.


End file.
